


Three of Four

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Four Horsemen, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Het, Illnesses, Pestilence, Sick Abbie, Sick Ichabod, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 18:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2477795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pestilence was coming.</p><p>Ichabod could feel it in his bones.</p><p>[Sickfic.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three of Four

Pestilence was coming.

Ichabod could feel it in his bones.

It was in the way that his energy started to sap after the smallest of activity, the way that he was breathless after a chase or how he collapsed into bed, forgoing even the most basic habits like brushing his teeth or taking a shower, and fell asleep immediately.

Then an irritating, nagging cough began. It was irksome at best, at first, when it was just here and there. It was something that he could politely hide into a clenched fist or the corner of his arm. But then it got worse, where he coughed until bile burned the back of his throat and left him winded for countless minutes.

The Lieutenant was, of course, concerned, but Ichabod assured her that it was just a simple allergy to the changing air. He knew it wasn't, but he didn't say so. It hardly mattered. If he and Abbie were meant to be the Witnesses to the Apocalypse, and the four horsemen were to ride again, Death and War were going to be a small part of a still larger problem.

Then came the nasal problems. It started with excess nasal drainage and nowhere for it to go but out. He started carrying one of the monogrammed handkerchiefs he had found at the convenience store - the ones emblazoned with the purple letter _C_ \- and tried to find a time and place to blow his nose where it wouldn't interrupt coversation. Some days, Ichabod would wake up and his nose would be clogged up. Those days were almost as irritating as when his nose incessantly ran, because those were the days that he couldn't breathe out of his nose correctly. Breathing out of his mouth was both loud and irritating, drying his mouth out and making him impossibly thirsty.

He wasn't sure why it affected him before anyone else. Perhaps it had something to do with his blood bond with both Death and War - literal curses or mismatched family - that had him so susceptible to this horseman's presence. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he didn't belong to this century, just like the horsemen shouldn't be, either. He didn't know.

After the headache started, he didn't care.

Abbie sent him home no less than three times within a two week period, ordering him from the precinct with a bottle of aspirin in hand. Ichabod couldn't complain; as much as he desired to be part of the cases, he could barely concentrate on staying awake, let alone helping Miss Mills figure out what it was they were chasing.

He felt the fever coming on halfway back to the cabin after a trip to the grocery store. His body felt impossibly warm. His heart thudded almost painfully against his ribs, echoing loudly in his ears. His ribs ached, his chest ached, his head throbbed. There were goosebumps on his skin.

He tilted his head to rest it against the car window.

"I'm worried about you," Abbie said, glancing over at him.

"That would be unwise," Ichabod muttered, closing his eyes. "Worry about the inhabitants of Sleepy Hollow instead."

When he woke up the next morning, the fever was heavy upon him. He struggled for his cellular device, struggled through the Lieutenant's phone number, and thumped his head back onto the pillow heavily.

_"Crane?"_

"Pestilence is here," he rasped. "In Sleepy Hollow."

He pushed his way through the rest of the conversation, but he didn't remember any of it by the time he woke up again. And when he did wake up again, frozen on the outside but impossibly warm in his core, there was a cool cloth against his forehead.

"Crane?"

Ichabod peeled his eyes open slightly, squinting towards the voice. It was Abbie's, and slowly her presence came into view, sitting next to his bed in one of the chairs from his dinner table.

"Hey." Abbie smiled faintly. "I got here as soon as I could."

Ichabod's eyes were swimming from the pain in his head. He blinked hard and couldn't find the strength to open his eyes. "Why?" he managed thickly.

"Why?" The cloth left his forehead. There was the sound of water swishing seconds later. "Because you're sick, Crane. Because Pestilence is here, and you're my other half in this fight. I'm here to help you out and get you back on your feet," Abbie concluded, placing the cloth back on his forehead.

Water trickled down his temples. The sensation was unpleasant in his already frigid state, but he couldn't complain. He didn't have the strength, and he knew that it would help in the long run. If there _was_ a long run, his mind reminded.

There were probably a few hundred responses to Abbie's statement, but Ichabod couldn't think of them. So, he settled on the easiest, most simple one. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Uh huh," Abbie replied. "Have you had any meds lately?" she asked, tucking the blankets around him.

"Not..." Ichabod cleared his throat. "Not recently."

"Alright. Let's start with that."

She found the medication that Ichabod had left buried somewhere within a mountain of tissues and blankets. She helped him sit up and swallow back the pills with ice water that simultaneously burned and froze his sore throat. She helped tuck him back into the blankets, carding her fingers through his sweat damp hair to pull back into a ponytail.

His cheeks felt warmer than it they had previously. "Lieutenant-" he started wearily. He could fend for himself. He simply did not have the desire to do so at the most present moment.

"Don't argue with me right now," Abbie replied smartly. "Go back to sleep."

 _I can't go back to sleep whilst you continue to touch my hair in such a manner_ , he thought to himself, but he had to admit that it felt better when the strands desperately in need of a wash were no longer sticking to his face with sweat.

He fell back asleep soon afterwards.

When he woke up the next time, it was with a start. He had been thrown from his fever dreams suddenly, leaving him startled and out of breath. He briefly saw Katrina in place of Abbie's face peering down at him. He blinked hard, gripped onto the blankets tightly, and let out a breath as he opened his eyes again.

"Alright?" Abbie asked quietly.

Ichabod made himself assent with a nod. He couldn't recall what he had been dreaming about, but his pulse was racing. He felt even more sick than he had previously.

"Alright," Abbie replied, in the tone of statement, not question, this time. "Let's get your temperature, shall we?"

Ichabod coughed. "If you must," he mumbled. He felt even more confused than usual by the digital thermometer that the Lieutenant presented to him, rational thought clouded by the 21st century clouded by a fever.

"Open," Abbie said, and Ichabod parted his lips unassuredly and allowed her to slip the device between his lips. "Under your tongue, Crane. There you go."

She was talking down to him, Ichabod realized tiredly. He wondered if she was aware of it. Maybe he just looked _that_ horrible.

The thermometer beeped after a few seconds, startling him out of his again half-dozing state. "What-" he started, formulating a question in his mind, but Abbie reached forward and took the thermometer from his mouth.

"It just beeps when it's finished." She paused. " _Jeez_."

Ichabod's lips tugged into a frown. "What's wrong?"

"Your temp is 104°, Crane. 104.2°." Abbie glanced up. "I should be taking you to a hospital," she muttered.

Ichabod sighed and coughed into the blankets. "It isn't that type of fever," he said wearily. He didn't say it, because it was too much to say, but the fact was that a hospital couldn't help him when Pestilence was the cause. He would either get better, or he would die.

"Damn it," Abbie muttered, casting the thermometer onto the table. "We still haven't figured out _who_ Pestilence is, nevermind how to defeat it. Are you going to be sick the whole time?"

Ichabod wanted to shrug, but didn't. Instead, he just closed his eyes again because it was too much effort to keep them open.

The next time, he heard coughing that wasn't his own. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, cold washing through his veins for an entirely different reason than the fever ravaging his body. He struggled to sit up, fighting through the fever and the blankets and the dizziness that made his vision teeter precariously when he moved. Darkness etched into the furthest edges of his vision.

"Lieutenant?"

"Sorry, Crane," Abbie muttered, appearing into his line of vision. "Swallowed wrong."

He didn't believe her for a second. He didn't _want_ to find a lie in the Lieutenant's voice, but her tight smile and pale face was enough proof for both of them.

Ichabod wanted to panic, but instead collapsed back into the blankets after his arms had begun to shake.

When Abbie had passed out on his sofa - and Ichabod was faced with the startling reality that he had no recollection of how long he had been in bed, or how long Abbie had been there - and Ichabod staggered his way back from the bathroom, the Lieutenant's phone started to vibrate on the table.

Ichabod accepted the call so that it wouldn't wake her up. "Lieutenant Mills's phone." He cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"

_"Crane? Is that you?"_

"Mr. Irving?" Ichabod ventured hesitantly.

_"Yeah, we've got a line on Pestilence. Jenny and I are on our way now."_

Ichabod straightened up slightly, although he was starting to wobble on his feet. He leaned heavily against the back of the sofa. "Miss Mills... she appears to be exhibiting the same symptoms that I have been struggling with," he said slowly, looking over at Abbie. "Are you and Miss Mills's sister healthy?"

 _"We're alright, for now, anyway,"_ Irving replied. _"There's been three more people quarantined that I know of, probably more, not that it's passing like that, though. Any idea of how to cure this mystery illness?"_

Ichabod sighed. He felt breathless. "Wait it out. Perhaps engaging the horseman will change the status of our illness. Maybe we're simply meant to perish with the disease."

_"Don't say that, Crane. We're gonna figure this out."_

"I would trust none other to," Ichabod replied. _Besides Abbie_ , he added mentally, but she was currently sleeping on his sofa.

_"Get some rest. I'll call back later. Let me know if anything changes."_

"Stay safe," Ichabod said.

He managed to grab his coat from the back of the chair where it had been abandoned for days and spread it across Abbie's sleeping form. They were stewing in each other's germs, either way. As far as Ichabod could tell, this illness wasn't infectious so much as it was just product of a horseman run rampant.

Either way, he was practically unconscious by the time he himself stumbled back across the room to his bed.

He didn't wake up the rest of the night and, when morning came, he was pleasantly surprised - and also a little suspicious - when the world didn't waver around the edges. He still felt too cold, cold on the outside and warm internally, but not as bad as he had. His fever seemed... lower, but it was by no means gone.

He could get out of bed without collapsing after three minutes, however, and that was a start. He painstakingly made himself a good cup of tea and copied the Lieutenant's earlier action by placing a wet cloth on Abbie's forehead. He wasn't sure what else to do, so he sat down with the teapot nearby for accessibility.

He found a message on Abbie's phone from Irving. But it had gone to voicemail, a concept that Ichabod had yet to figure out, so he couldn't listen to it. He imagined, however, that they had found some way to combat the horseman's illness.

"Crane...?" Abbie muttered, sitting up slightly.

Ichabod glanced up from his second cup of tea. "Lieutenant." He set his cup aside. "I believe your former captain and sister found Pestilence last night. Whatever happened there, the reign of illness has been altered."

"What?" Abbie asked blearily. She caught the cloth as it fell off her forehead when she sat up, groaning under her breath.

"There was a message on your phone," Ichabod said.

"... Oh." Abbie sighed, rubbing her eyes. "So, what, it's not reversed or... stopped or... whatever?"

Ichabod shrugged slightly. "I believe whatever illness is in effect will simply continue its usual path and then the patient will recover. My fever is lower, but it's still there," he continued shortly.

"You should be in bed," Abbie muttered. "So should I," she added.

"Yes," Ichabod agreed. "And I will return there shortly. But first: would you like some tea before we return to our slumber?"

Abbie blinked tiredly. "That sounds marvelous."

Ichabod reached for the extra cup. "I thought so, too." He carefully poured another cup, mindful that his hands were still shaking from exertion, and handed it off to her. "There you are."

Abbie gripped his arm loosely. "Sit down. You're shaking."

Ichabod looked down at her hand. "I am recovering," he said, although he sat down next to her with no further fuss.

"And I'm just starting to get sick and it's going to run its course," Abbie muttered, curling her fingers around her tea. "This is great."

"I'll take care of you if need be, Lieutenant."

Abbie laughed weakly. "Thanks. Might take you up on that."

Ichabod paused for a moment, thinking, before offering a corner of his blanket.

Abbie raised her eyebrows. "Are you asking me to cuddle with you, Crane?"

Ichabod made a face, feigning being wounded. "‘Cuddle’ might be a strong word for the situation, wouldn't you say, Miss Mills?" he replied.

Abbie smiled faintly before shuffling over, settling against Ichabod's side. He silently moved the blanket until it was wrapped around her shoulders as well.

"Thanks," she muttered, taking another drink of her tea.

"By design, I must thank you as well," Ichabod replied. "I wonder if I would have made it without you."

Abbie rolled her eyes, nudging his shoulder. "Don't push it. I wasn't that much of a help."

"Your company was thoroughly beneficial, I believe," Ichabod said, and fixed the blanket around their shoulders again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I mean it in the least sadistic way possible, but I'd love to see them both get sick whenever Pestilence rolls into town in the show. But, for the lack of more than two horsemen at the moment, and no large amount of either death or war within the show at the moment, I wrote this. (Doesn't mean I still wouldn't like to see Ichy get sicky on the show. xD)
> 
> I do not own _Sleepy Hollow_. Thanks for reading!


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